for the widows in paradise
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: Dexter struggles with the choice he's made. They say you make your own grave. [Post-season one, completely ignores the other seasons. Brian x Dexter slash, implied but not fulfilled incest.]


_I have called you children, I have called you son_

 _What is there to answer if I'm the only one?_

 _Morning comes in paradise, morning comes in light_

 _Still I must obey, still I must invite_

 _If there's anything to say, if there's anything to do_

 _If there's any other way_

 _I'll do anything for you_

\- Sufjan Stevens, "For the Widows in Paradise"

* * *

So this is what it feels like to be loved, Dexter thinks. It's very… painful.

He stays until well past when the body is cold and the blood a bare trickle down into the bucket. Brian keeps his eyes closed; Dexter wishes he didn't owe him any more, but for that, he just might. Most of the time, Dexter can't hear the dripping past his own ragged breathing. It's the first time he's cried like this and his brother has been here to comfort him. That already makes Brian a thousand more times precious than Deb.

When he can't feel anything, he leaves. But of course, that's just a lie. All Dexter can do now is feel. He's really, really getting sick of it.

* * *

Dexter keeps the ring.

He doesn't take it out often—he already thinks about Rudy, or Brian, enough as it is, because the tangible reminders of his brother's existence are everywhere. They remain like bad stains in his photo album (the smiley face is faded with the slide of Dexter's thumb, over and over, wearing the ink), in his saved message box, the refrigerator, the little box of dotted red memories hidden in the air conditioner, in Deb's brittle grins and Dexter's darker dreams. Brian has touched every part of his life. All of Dexter. Deep, clutching, raw. Left imprints, blood splatters Dexter can't begin to identify.

But the ring he hides with the Barbie head, two tiny secrets even more intimate than the Dark Passenger's trophies. These he keeps locked away and close, for special occasions, after a long day of being confused or when he's feeling particularly alone. Those nights, Dexter takes out the ring and studies it. It had been on Deb's hand, but it is Dexter's ring and he knows it. She is not the person Brian wanted to share his life with; a promise had been made as it slid past her knuckle, but not to Deborah.

It doesn't fit on Dexter's fingers. He doesn't need to try it on to know that, but he does it anyway, furtively. It's gaudy and fake. Heavy, the blood red stone and its twin diamond neighbors against the clean, smooth nailbed of his ring finger. Usually he keeps the light off when he looks at it—makes it easier, somehow.

One time, Dexter sucks at the band until all he can taste is cheap gold for hours, all throughout work and Doakes' suspicious glares, and the quiet, forced enthusiasm of Deborah trying to get on with life. Dexter tries not to smile because if he does, the air might steal the metallic tang to his gums, leave him emptier than he already is.

It's not that he's mourning, even though he is. It's not that he wants, even though he does. If there's one emotion Dexter might be getting used to, it's regret.

* * *

Life doesn't go on, contrary to trite statements that would make you believe otherwise. Deborah is a mere ghost of what she had been and everyone around the station knows it. Dexter feels like he should offer something, some sort of meaning to what she went through, but if he can't find it himself, there's barely anything left for a fake sister. Does saving her, choosing Deb over a real brother, make her a real sister? Does this mean he's found the emotions Harry always accepted may never come, but had hoped for his son? Dexter wants to give them both back.

He's a traitor. He's no worse than Harry, who lied.

Dexter thinks about making another killing soon, because the need is clamoring inside of him. It jumps inside his skin, beats against his ribs, pulses with his heart every time it pumps blood through his arteries, some sort of intrinsic longing that dries up the throat and puts butterflies into his stomach. It's a little like what he felt for Brian, the short time he had him.

But he doesn't kill anyone for a long time after. Maybe he doesn't have the taste for it anymore. Maybe too much is sometimes too much.

Dexter thinks being a hero is a lot worse than being a killer.

* * *

He cuts out the newspaper's photo of Rudy Cooper, the Ice Truck Killer. Crumples it up seven times before he keeps one. There are plenty of images in the news, which hates to let go of the case so soon, the shocking sensation of Florida. Miami is high on the buzz of vengeance fulfilled.

Dexter tries to find pieces of himself in Brian's face, in their shared blood. There isn't much left.

* * *

Rita's been aloof lately. She looks like she wants to come out and say something, but Dexter isn't up for pretending too much. She's probably finally seeing the bleakness to his eyes. The death creeping up between them. A blackness, the darkly dreaming Dexter tucked away near his heart, where nothing can touch or hurt it. It's probably almost over now, with Rita. He tries to work up the will to care, but this whole emotions thing is charring his insides and overkill might do him in or worse. Besides, he's used to this—Dexter always drives the things he wants away sooner or later, whether he tries or not.

Whenever he swings Cody above his head, he's thinking about the little boy stuck inside the shipping yard car, about chainsaws that buzz so loudly that the squealing screams can't quite cover it. Whenever he holds Rita's hand, he thinks it's too small and has none of the skill years of working with knives would bring. When they have sex, Dexter feels closed off, unable to perform. All he can see in his mind, over and over, is that one second of connection; the slide of his forehead over Brian's, the warmth, the sweat beading their hair, the _belonging_. Dexter had never felt so close to someone in his entire life, even Harry. All over touches were meaningless, pale shrouds in comparison.

With Brian, it all means something. There had been nothing between them; he'd known Dexter better than Dexter had known himself.

And he can't do it anymore. Not with Rita, maybe not with anyone. With Rita, he doesn't have to pretend the passion, but he has to pretend it matters when it _doesn't._ There is nothing here to make Dexter complete. He wants that forehead. He wants those hands folding around his own. He wants the scratch of stubble and the intense stare of someone who could split him, break that plaster cast of Dexter Morgan around the real man trapped inside, make Dexter _vulnerable_ and still not hurt him. A big brother. A big bad wolf.

Dexter wants to lose control. He's the one that wants to be spread wide open. With Rita, that can never happen and so he just waits for it all to go away.

* * *

"You've been acting weird lately," Deb says.

Dexter shrugs, tapping on the keyboard. Another case, another day. Lately, they don't fascinate him as much. "I don't know. Things are kind of going weird with Rita."

"Oh. Well, you sure you're okay?" But Deb's eyes are already far away, uncaring. She doesn't mean to be a bad little sister, but she's barely handling herself, much less anyone else's shit lately. Doakes has been tiptoeing around her half the time, only to make truly awful mistakes like a blind man sneaking through a pitch black room full of expensive Ming vases—the man has no tact, but even Dexter knows his heart's in the right place. At least he can trust his sister with Doakes. If Doakes can even tell Dexter's a monster, he'd be able to protect her from all the other dark things that go bump in the night… and the silent ones, too.

"I'm okay. Really," he tells his sister. He's so good at lying that it rolls off his tongue without stopping. For once, though, he has trouble believing it.

* * *

 _I wanted to have you tell me everything would be alright_ , Dexter whispers in his bedroom, into the pillow where no one can hear. _I wanted you to hug me again. Is that so bad? Big bad serial killer just wants a hug or two. Didn't need a massacre._

The massacre was a nice touch, though. Dexter rolls over, throws off the sheets, and goes to find the ring. For a while, he lets himself dream about a world without the Code of Harry. There are a lot more porterhouse steaks there. A lot more fear, too.

* * *

 _I think you're ready for Deborah_ , Brian says in his dreams.

In these dreams, Dexter does not take the knife. He does not let himself stand and be led out of the house. He just clings to Brian's shirt, pulling his brother back to him, pulling his life _back_ to Dexter where it belongs. In these dreams, they never make it to the ugly truth in the garage and Dexter never has to make a choice.

They could've fixed up the house. Dexter's more of an apartment person, but he could have grown to like it. Maybe painted some stuff blue. Dexter likes the color blue. In these dreams, Dexter talks about painting the house blue and says whatever it takes to keep Brian's fingers—like piano fingers, artist fingers, long and spidery—from taking up the knife, making his last mistake. And when talking doesn't work, in these dreams, Dexter pulls him down by the collar and—

They're stupid dreams. But Dexter isn't stupid. He thinks he might be crossing some wires, but when a guy doesn't realize he'd been made of wires to begin with, he figures that's okay.

* * *

Memories are not enough. They're faded and cold, tainted with the remembrance of blood two inches thick and a woman he's never known.

"I can't live like this," Dexter tells the mirror.

Too bad he can.

* * *

The first guy he kills after his brother is a guy named Brandon Fraisley. Brandon's been a nasty, nasty piece of work, and a thorn in the world's side for quite a few years. Dexter stumbles on him purely by accident in court. He's a classic black widow, gets with rich women, marries them, and is properly shocked when they have an "accident" a year or so later. Has to move to different cities to properly recover after the fact, too, with a nice bundle of cash. Changes his name every time. Dexter recognizes the glint in his eyes and makes the right research efforts before bagging him and adding the neat droplet of blood to his collection. If the wounds are little jagged, a little hurried and full of despair, Dexter doesn't mind. There's no one to see his work anymore, after all, and no hidden approval to gain; he doesn't need it from a liar like Harry, and he couldn't stand to ask his brother's after his own betrayal.

He's becoming Harry's product, after all, Dexter thinks in some irony. Harry made sure he installed the Code in his son, but he put other things there—the need to protect Deb, the ability to lie to someone he cares about, and that ugly bleakness that Harry must have understood somehow. Maybe Harry hadn't been such a good guy, Dexter thinks now. Maybe he'd went from one wolf to another of a different color.

He kills the man quickly and gets no particular joy, but it's taken care of and that's all that's necessary. The hunger eases, subsides.

The empty gnawing doesn't, though.

* * *

A house with broken shutters and a refrigerating unit locked electronically. Blue walls and a yellow kitchen, everything nice and neat and clean and tidy and square. Coffee in the mornings, straight up with no sugar for early risers. Laundry at the end of the week, pranks with inside jokes that no one else gets when someone mixes the reds and whites; Dexter wearing pink boxers and shirts to work for a month. Rare steaks and beers in the evening. Critiquing slasher movies. Sick, twisted jokes, discussions about blood splatters and the latest cases, intelligent guesses flying back and forth over the sofa, a heady laugh and touch that reaches under the skin and into the soul. Sharing breath at night, hot whispers against Dexter's neck, a palm sliding down his spine like a snake, the whole world melting into light instead of the darkness that has Dexter hidden. Someone who would trace Dexter's scars like they were beautiful instead of strange. Someone who didn't mind the edge to Dexter's smile. A mold to his back, teeth at his neck. A universe of two, a shared shadow.

In another world, Dexter is a happier person.

* * *

"I'm watching you, Morgan," Doakes snarls, shoving past Dexter with a well-timed shove to his shoulder. Dexter hits the wall and laughs, breathless.

"It's my sister you should be watching," he jibes.

For a second, he thinks Doakes will turn around and punch him, but instead the man just scowls. "Trust me, I am. Gotta keep her from psychos like you," he says flatly.

Dexter nods. "That's good."

* * *

He can't turn back time and make up for his mistakes. Dexter isn't even sure he would change things, if given the chance. What's done had to be done. Deb is safe. Dexter is alone, but he's sort of used to that by now.

That doesn't change him from wanting to try, anyway.

He has a long time to think about it. Lots of days of pretending, lots of days of feeling before he goes from wishing he could be like everyone else to wishing he was the Dark Passenger like before. There's something tainted in him now, some sense of humanity that digs into his core, the last traces of cold thawing out in the aftermath. He still doesn't understand people, or social interactions, or even love. He knows grief intimately, but even that Dexter thinks he may not be feeling full force, more like a muted visitor, because surely, surely, if it were fully there, he would die of it.

He might die of it, anyway.

* * *

The next time Dexter kills a man, he drains the blood and packs up the body parts. It's a beautiful thing. No blood, just clean, crisp flesh.

When the police panic, he just sits at his desk and smiles.

* * *

This may be the start of something terrible.

He's going to get caught. Rita isn't talking to him anymore. Deb is more distant than ever, even when she pretends they've connected on some length; deep down, Dexter hates her just a little for Brian. If it hadn't been for Deb, they could've been together. They could've been brothers again. Dexter would be happy. And really, she's had more of Brian than Dexter, seen more, talked to him more. Even if it was a fake man, Dexter is jealous in a way.

But at least the real parts belonged to Dexter. Even if he threw them away, that knowledge is still better than nothing.

The thing is, Dexter doesn't know what to do from here on out. There are a lot of different paths to choose from, stuff that might happen and might not. He guesses that it just goes on—the earth spins, Miami has date nights every night, Dexter kills people who deserve it, Deb gets a new boyfriend, Doakes is suspicious, and blood never looks the same ever again.

Is that the way it goes?

* * *

The truth is, it's not the same. The Dark Passenger that rides within Dexter has changed for worse or better, and Dexter feels like he's lost every time he steps out the door. This time, the one who got carved up is Dexter. The scars aren't closing over with time; he's still bleeding.

Maybe he didn't kill Brian. Maybe Brian killed Dexter.

Either way, Dexter figures, something's got to give. But it never does. His pain only blots, like the collection he hides away, spreading thin until there's nowhere to escape.


End file.
